Never Again
by ink and ashes
Summary: The War is over - for good. All over the world, people rejoice and praise his name once again; yes, the Boy-Who-Lived has done it again - he's given us all a reason to smile. A reason to feel safe again. . . But at what cost? One-shot.


**Never Again**

It was the first time since the Yule Ball that anyone had ever seen him so dressed up.

While known for many things, being tidy was not one of them; his section of the room was as messy as every other boys', and if his hair was any indication, he never overdressed or fancied himself up if the need wasn't urgent, not even for a girl. True, he cleaned up if instructed, but if left to his own devices, the young Miss Granger would have to bully and threaten him with hexes and charms until he relented out of fear or ringing ears. Many knew that, had he not been so fond and attached to his wand and broom, they would have ended up who-knows-where.

Funny how the little things seem so amusing and trivial when it's over.

Now, he wore a white shirt of brilliant white, outshining any flake of snow laying on the ground around them. His tie--a _real_ tie instead of the clip-on he would have most likely preferred out of laziness--was as immaculate as his suit, the darkness of the ebony material looking almost foreign on him. If one looked close enough, you could see your own reflection in his shoes, so radiant were they. Unfortunately, his hair was another matter entirely--a pound of the strongest hair gel in all of London could not keep the unruly mass cooperative, but it was fine; it was his trademark, and it gave him a look that was his, and his alone. The black-framed spectacles were painfully absent from his pale face, leaving the large, closed eyes exposed.

In his breast-pocket was a flower matching his white shirt, the evergreen leaves said to have matched the perfection of his emerald eyes. He looked like a handsome, young gentleman. Like every other boy, Muggle or Wizard alike. Many remembered that his smile was just as normal, unreserved and unabashedly carefree. Looking at him from a single glance, no one but another Witch or Wizard would be able to tell that he was probably the greatest Wizard to ever have lived; even next to Dumbledore and the dreaded Voldemort, he was said to have been the best, because he managed to do what no other being of Magickal descent had ever done before:

Single-handedly destroy the Dark Lord and his evil minions.

It had taken months of training on his part, breaking almost all contact with the outside world. Every spell--light _and_ dark--was learned and practiced in his agile, clever mind. Soon, he surpassed even Hermione; at one point, he became an Animagus, but soon lost interest in the task, due to the all-consuming War. He rarely ate and almost never slept--which would explain his ashen, deathly pallor.

The world had almost thought him dead--until he faced Voldemort for the last time.

How he did it was like something out of a fairytale. He'd come within an inch of his life . . . the Dark Lord's disciples closed in on him, wanting to vanquish the only threat to Supremacy and Omnipotence. Then, with a cry of agony, he released a spell--a spell neither Witch nor Wizard had ever conjured, because it was _he_ that created it--that destroyed the unholy army and the Parseltongue's soul into ash and dust. . .

But at a terrible, terrible cost.

Wearing a beautiful dress of ebony silk, shot through with shimmering diamonds and ivory embroidery, the lovely Miss Granger walked forward, her heels of obsidian sinking slightly into the grass and soil. Her hair was no longer bushy--she'd taken the extra time to comb and tame it into a honey brilliance, the soft, beautiful waves flowing freely down her back. Her large, autumn eyes were downcast, looking at the white rose held loosely in her gloved hands. Her skin was pale and withdrawn as she strode forward, her lips white due to the fact that she was withholding her emotions.

Beside her was a _very_ tall redhead--one of many. This one, however, was the closest to their best friend, and was slightly more freckly than his brothers and sister. His tresses of orange-red were tamed by a mere ribbon of ebony at the nape of his neck, matching his brand new black suit. His tie was maroon, however--due to an interfering mother--but his shirt was white. The flower in his breast-pocket was red, setting off his big baby-blues very nicely. Dirt marred his shoes a little, but no one would really care to comment on it--what was a little dirt, especially here?

Gently, the young Miss Granger placed the lovely flower on the "glorified box of mahogany", as she had called it before. It joined its place with so many other flowers that others had placed before her, and she could barely contain herself; her fingers lingered on the wood, closing her sad eyes for a moment, not wanting to ever leave. "I wish we could go back--back to the days when getting your Potion's homework done was my biggest problem and catching the Snitch was yours," she said softly, causing nearby listeners to smile ever-so-softly at the recollection of those said days; many of the people there had been with him during those times, struggling through school and the millions of escapades that had made up their lives.

How trivial their problems back then seemed now. . .

"I wish we could go back to the day when the Sorting Hat made us all nervous," she said, louder this time, as if speaking her thoughts for all to know. They listened eagerly, desperate for a reprieve of this grief. "Or, better yet, to the times when we all looked forward to the daily feast at our House tables, and laughed at Seamus' failed attempts at turning water into rum." At this, there were more laughs, even from said former Gryffindor, who muttered that he had yet to master that trick. "I wish we could go back to Christmas at the castle, with the Castle Ghosts floating around, singing carols and Professor Flitwick decorating the biggest Christmas trees I've ever seen . . ." her voice trailed off, broken--her eyes sparkled with tears and she let herself release the emotion she felt so strongly, the tears falling quicker than expected.

The redhead that had stood beside her spoke next, picking up where she had left off. "I remember the days when we'd go meet Hagrid in his home, and I almost died of fright when I first met Fang. And I remember how we almost died after meeting Hagrid's friend, Aragog." Here, he chuckled at the memory, his laugh being accompanied by a sad, heart-breaking one by the gentle giant himself. "Actually, I remember a lot of time we almost died--but I also remember how we lived. And how I never regretted a day I was at Hogwarts."

"Well-said, Ron," said the crying Hagrid, Fang whimpering at his feet. Hagrid's style was far from fashionable, but no one really cared; the female half-giantess beside him wasn't exactly up-to-par in attire, either, but fashion was far from their minds, as previously mentioned. "Oi couldn't 'ave said it better meself." All around, people were whimpering, either too grieved to cry, or waiting for privacy before doing so--but Mrs. Weasley had no such reservation and sobbed openly into her husband's suit, wailing her heart out.

Wearing a shimmering robe of black and periwinkle silk, a man with a beard as long as he was tall came forth, his white hair standing out even from afar. His half-moon glasses did not deter his imposing presence, but neither did it hide the tears glimmering in his shiny eyes. "In all my years, surrounded by children and some of the most powerful Wizards ever known, never have I ever felt as honored as I do now." He had their undivided attention, his voice low, but powerful even then. "I have met many people--dark, magickal, muggle, good--but never have I ever had the privilege of meeting one so young--so utterly selfless--as the boy you all came to see today.

"This was a person who knew, from a very young age, what loss was. Who knew, without a doubt, that he would have to sacrifice everything he'd ever known and loved for the good of people everywhere. There were times he'd crack--and I was there to witness them--but he'd always get back up, as determined and as brave as ever. He adored his friends and those he considered family--and I'm sure they adored him in return. As a Headmaster, I was quite impressed with him, even from the first day I met him as a boy of twelve. He had to deal with rumors and fairytales--stories and fables that would turn any man bitter and resentful. He was the most susceptible to darkness--could have turned on us all in a second--but never once deviated from the path of good.

"For one so young, I must admit, I expected him to give into the darker side of temptation. I expected another disciple of Voldemort--but I was wrong." There was an awed silence--no one dared to so much as breathe. The great Albus Dumbledore bowed his head, as if overcome with grief. His voice was feather-soft. "And now, we all stand here, united on this Sacred Ground. We came here today to say farewell to the bravest Wizard--no--_man_ I have ever met. To say our final goodbyes to our Savior--a boy who became a man much too quickly. A mere boy of sixteen that unflinchingly sacrificed his life for us. For our world."

"For Peace," finished Hermione, her sobs shaking her small figure. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling with the force of her torment and grief. Ron went over and hugged her, letting her cry on his shoulder as he, too, let his tears fall freely down his pain-stricken face.

"All hail the Boy-Who-Lived--and died for us!" Declared Neville Longbottom, his wand raised high in the air. Around him, Witches and Wizards raised their wands, the few muggles there bowing their heads in utter respect; this boy had made the world safe for their children; they'd be forever in his debt. The Cemetery was suddenly filled with the cry as the coffin slowly lowered into the murky abyss of everlasting soil and earth, many crying harder, knowing that this was the end. That never again would they see his smiling face, or see his emerald eyes twinkle in triumph after having caught the Snitch. Never again would they go on an adventure, or goof off with him on a sunny afternoon.

And Hermione wailed harder, drenching Ron's jacket.

"All hail Harry Potter!"


End file.
